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"Won't you settle for an old-fashioned shooting star?" Daisy asked softly. She reached a hand back of her neck to pull the thing off. "Hey, don't do that," Gusterson protested in a hurt voice. "Not for a while anyway." "Hokay!" she said harshly, turning on him. "Zen down on your knees, dog!"
"Guilty," exclaimed Gootes suddenly, "guilty! What kind of a lousy newspaperman am I? Worrying about guilt and solutions in the face of impending calamity instead of serving it redhot to a palpitating public. Guilty hell, I ought to be fired. Or anyway shot. Where's the phone?" "I manage a minimum of privacy in spite of inquiring reporters and unemployed canvassers. I have no telephone." "Hokay.
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